


tomorrow morning we’ll be miles away

by adevyish



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Near Future, Politics, WIP Amnesty, community: lolitics_meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:18:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adevyish/pseuds/adevyish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A future where George is prime minister, Peter has just retired from being director-general of the WTO, and they’ve been in a relationship for ten years before the press find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tomorrow morning we’ll be miles away

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to [lolitics_meme](http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/10298.html?thread=27250490#t27250490). Title from “Two Divided By Zero” by Pet Shop Boys.
> 
> I was going to finish this but press scrums are hard to write :( As it stands this story is about half-way done.

**N.**

The first trill of a phone ringing woke Peter up. It was his personal emergency line, one that only his closest allies (and George) knew about and had strict instructions not to call, so he turned on a lamp, put on a pair of glasses and a robe, and tapped the call button.

“Your _dear_ boy,” said Alastair. “Sam kindly told me that the fucking _Telegraph_ vultures have found out.”

Peter went completely still. “Fuck.” A quick glance at the bedside clock read five am. His mind was speeding through a thousand and one statements, but what he said was, “Does he not know how to do _anything_ right?”

“You shit it out, you shovel it up,” Alastair spat out. There was a muffled sound, a bin kicked over. “That’s what you get for moving to cloud land to become lead prophet of the Wanker and Tory Orgy.”

Peter frowned. “It was a non-partisan appointment.”

“That’s not it fucking looks like,” Alastair ranted. “It looks like you would bend over and spread your wrinkled arse in five seconds if _your dear boy_ blinked his mascara eyelashes twice, when in fact, it would only take you one fucking second! Why don’t you just wave—”

“Alastair!” He waited for Alastair to stop. “We made a plan for this. Make the children _stick to the plan_.”

“Peter—”

“I have someone I need to call,” he said curtly, and hung up. Alastair would have other people to shout at. Peter dialled the number from memory, and waited.

“Hgh?” came over the phone. Peter imagined George alone in his large bed at No 10, still half-asleep and groggy.

“George,” he breathed.

“Peter?” came an unsure voice. If Peter was there right now, he would be smoothing an unruly curl, or cupping a hand at the base of that pale neck. But it was much too dangerous.

“I’m sorry, George.” Something he never said.

“Peter?” George sounded panicked now. “What’s wrong? What did I do?”

There were so many things Peter had been ready to say, but all he wanted to do was to hold George. “No, my dear boy, you’ve nothing wrong.” He paused. “The _Telegraph_ found out.”

There was a protracted gasp of a curse. “How? Are you sure?”

Peter replied, as calmly as he could, “Sam is in full damage control.”

“Come over,” George whispered.

“George,” Peter entreated, “there will be press camped outside.”

“Please come over, Peter,” George repeated, with a tiny sob. “If it’s my last day in office I want to spend it with you.”

Peter wanted to say, _you’ll be fine_ , but he could not lie to George. “It’s not the end of your life,” he said instead, and wished he could convey how true it was, that he could take this worry away from George. “Don’t let them get to you.”

There was a half-laugh, half-sob over the phone. “Like you let them get to you?”

“George,” Peter snapped. “ _I’ll_ take care of it.”

“Do you know how that’s going to look?” George said. “Like you’re the puppet master in the shadows! No one’s going to take me seriously again!”

“Your media operation is absolutely _useless_ , and you know it,” Peter said.

“At least I’m in power!” George paused and sniffled. “I’m sorry Peter, I didn’t mean to say that.”

“You did,” Peter said, but his voice was softer now. “You could come with me to Geneva.”

“I’ll be a political pariah,” George said. If only Peter could wipe his eyes.

“Or we could go back to Corfu, just the two of us.”

George laughed weakly. “Kassiopi?”

“That’s right,” he replied. “I want you to remember this tomorrow: I love you.”

“Two firsts in one night,” George said. Peter hoped there was a smile on his face.

“Go to sleep now,” Peter said. “I’ll call Poppy for you.”

“I love you too, Peter.”

Peter stayed on the line until George fell asleep. Alastair could learn to deal with it.

 

**I.**

Peter did not sleep well. That was fine, he’d lived for decades on a handful of hours a night. After he had hung up, he’d turned on the telly in the corner cabinet. Some habits did not go with retirement. He’d rung Alastair, who told him off and ordered him back to sleep because “I don’t want to fucking hear you pull a Matthew Parris on Newsnight again. You stay as far the fuck away from the BBC as Nadine Dorries is from power, you hear me?” In the end, Peter had fallen asleep to the sounds of the rolling news coverage, teasing at the impending implosion but without any detail, and his dreams were filled with the sounds of on air speculation.

He woke up at six like everything was normal. The telly was still on; Vine had been manning the BBC since four am. The slimy fuck deserved it. He rang George first.

“Hghhhhh.”

“Good morning, George,” Peter said, a small smile playing on his face.

“Peter!” George exclaimed, and he could hear the rustling of bedsheets as George sat up. “I had the most amazing dream Peter, we were in Switzerland and you took me out snowshoeing and then we had a romantic dinner, and I convinced you to have sex on the rug. We haven’t had sex on the floor in _forever_ Peter.”

Peter chuckled, and said, “I’m afraid I’m getting on in age. I’m even retired now.”

“You just _say_ that,” George teased. “So! What are you up to today, Mr Elderly Senior?”

Usually Peter would joke about the extremely important task of walking Jack, and they would banter for up to a quarter of an hour as George ate his breakfast and Peter read his papers. Peter did not cry any more.

“I’ll be at party HQ,” he said, serious and sad.

“And you said you were retired!” George chortled. “Why? Oh. _Oh shit_. Why has Poppy not called me—”

“She’ll be calling in eight minutes,” Peter replied. “I told her to let you sleep.”

“Don’t fucking do that! I’m not a fucking child, Peter.” George took an audible breath. “Sorry, sorry. God, what am I going to _do_.”

“You’ll be making a statement in a few hours; Poppy will tell you when. I can get Ken and Danny on side.”

There was a silence. “I have to tell them myself,” George says, quietly but firmly. “I know you hate this, Peter, but we have to look like we’re separate from each other. I have to look like I’m separate from you. And I can’t have you briefing for me.”

“I know, George, I know,” Peter soothed. He stared into his green tea and tried not to remember all the times he had heard those words before. “But I do have to tell them too,” he entreated. “Message me when you’ve phoned them, please.”

“Okay, I will,” George said. “Promise me we’ll see each other soon,” he added quietly.

And Peter, against his best instincts, against the plan, said, “I promise.”

 

He rang Alastair second. As soon as the dial tone stopped he snapped, “Is it under control?”

“Yes, you Tory-fucking piece of shit,” Alastair said, “everything is going exactly to plan. I’ve got it all lined up like your toy boy’s Buller mates in front of lines of coke. Fiona’s going to fucking murder you for waking her, I hope you know.”

“Thank you for your illustrious input, Alastair,” Peter replied with heavy sarcasm. He would never admit gratitude to Alastair, ever.

Sam, ever reliable, had a full compliment of newspapers couriered to Peter’s mansion at six ten sharp. The headlines were inevitable and invariable: “PM SEX SCANDAL SHOCKER!”, “OSBORNE BLINDED BY DARK ARTS (HAGUE OUTRAGED)”, and “LITTLE BLUE RIDING HOOD”. The last had even been accompanied by a doctored photo which Peter would deny saving. The _Mirror_ had led a soft fluff piece with “GEORGE LOVES MANDY TOO”, Alastair’s doing no doubt. Grimly, Peter skimmed the papers as the car took him to Brewers Garden.

An intern, who introduced himself as Josh, greeted Peter at the door, and escorted him to a private room where the execution squad of Tom and Yvette was waiting. Yvette immediately stood up.

“What the _hell_ were you thinking,” she yelled, slamming the sleaziest tabloids on to the desk. It seemed she had finally learned the dramatics of delivery in the past few years. Peter would congratulate Tom later.

“It is my private life,” Peter responded, unimpressed.

“You’re a prominent Labour lord, you should know better!”

“Know better than to claim second homes? Certainly,” Peter replied, folding his hands as he watched Yvette become angrier.

Tom slammed his hands on the table. “Both of you, shut the fuck up or I will stake a rusty box cutter through your mouths and see how much noise you make then.”

Peter had had it. “I’m fucking retired. I haven’t bought any more expensive homes, I haven’t been seen in public with a Russian oil magnate in _three fucking years_ —”

(“In public, that’s nice,” Yvette muttered under her breath. Peter chose to ignore it.)

“—I haven’t even done anything to you for what you did to Ed.”

“I can’t tell if you’re going senile or if you’ve spun history so much you’ve started believing it,” Yvette sniped back. “We should just throw you out.”

Peter raised a disbelieving eyebrow; no one would ever dare, not after his greatest friend and enemy had personally brought him back to the top of government. Yvette seemed to realise her error, and slumped. (Peter would also never thank Gordon, nor would Gordon he.)

“Now that you’re done wasting my fucking time,” Tom said. “Alastair’s explained the plan to me and I’ve explained it to Yvette. I can’t believe no one fucking told me what I need to know and I will be making sure _this does not happen in the future_. Now,” he said, “Alastair and I will be out shoving knives up those press fuckers until they stop wailing while Sam will here holding the fort. We’ll also be rounding up mouthpieces—Ed Miliband has already volunteered for BBC Breakfast, no threats necessary.”

Ed had taken a decidedly zen approach to life since his return to the front benches, much like Peter had a decade ago. This could be good or disastrous for Peter; he’d have words with Alastair either way.

“You,” Tom said, pointing threateningly to Peter, “keep your mouth shut and your head down and _stay away from the Tory fucker_. Follow your own fucking plan.” He glared at Peter and Peter looked on impassively. Tom looked heavenward, got up, and turned to Yvette. “You, stick to the line. I don’t want to hear a word out of you that isn’t singing Peter’s praises. I’m off to hunt down some MPs.”

That left Peter alone with Yvette, likely on purpose. Peter put his hands on the table and leaned in. “I’m not sorry,” he said. “I was out of government when we began our relationship.”

“You were a still a lord,” Yvette scoffed.

“Before then,” Peter said off-handedly, as if it were of no importance.

Yvette took a moment to realize, then slumped down into her chair. “Christ, that’s what, ten years? And no one knew?”

“Ben, Roger. Alastair. Simon Lewis.” And David Cameron, but Peter would not wield that sword.

“Gordon? Michael Ellam?”

“You know them,” Peter said, fingers tapping the table.

“And how convenient is it that he got you that cushy international job Gordon would have never given you,” she mocked.

“I _left_ that job for Gordon. I could have ruined Gordon and _you know it_.”

Yvette glared at him, then gathered up the tabloids. “I’m glad you’ve finally shown without a doubt the Labour Party isn’t your first priority,” she said, holding out the tabloids out to Peter. “You just better hope you didn’t bring all of us down with your sinking yacht.”

Peter took the papers, pointedly threw them in the bin, and left.

 

Josh the intern was waiting for him outside and stuttered something about the press war room, so Peter strode ahead and completely ignored the boy. Sam was alone in the press HQ, and as soon as she saw Peter she barked at Josh to bring green tea.

They watched the news coverage with only the occasional remark, Sam weary and professional and Peter weary and hurting. He expected Sam would soon run for selection herself: she might not yet be ambitious, but she had the conviction and her time at HQ had tempered with pragmatism. He found it strange, a new generation that had never worked under Tony or Gordon, never been in their factions. Sam had joined the party in the twilight days of Gordon’s leadership; the worst she’d been in the thick of was Miliband versus Miliband act two, which had been mild despite some of David’s attempts. Peter supposed that one day, he too would fade from memory as a role model and bogeyman, and become a name solely for the historians. Perhaps that process would start today.

Seven twenty: Ed would be making his way out of the house now.

_“Ed, Ed! What do you think of the relationship between George Osborne and Lord Mandelson?”_

_“Look, it is nobody’s business who George Osborne is in a relationship with as long as it does not affect government policy, and it is very clear to see from this government’s policies that George Osborne is a true Conservative who does not care about ordinary people up and down the country. What we need in government are policies for everyday working people. That’s all I have to say; have a good day.”_

Ed’s forgiveness was completely incomprehensible, and Peter made a note to send around a very nice wine along with a chastising note. As he tapped a pen absently against his lips, Peter spared a brief thought for 1999 and a brief glance at the windows. He had George now, for however long George would keep him, who would soon have to face politicians, the press, and the public.

The rolling news coverage began to show George as he left No 10 just before eight, to a chorus of reporters shouting “What do you have to say for yourself?” and “When will you resign?”

George, as was his way, laughed and replied “I’m not resigning!”, sending the cameras a jaunty wave as he got into the car.

“U-turn on that, George!” shouted a gleeful aide who’d been standing around the tellies doing no work. Peter glared at him until he lowered his head and slunk away to his cubicle.

Peter settled back in to watch the coverage. Ben rang him for a few quick minutes of supportive conversation between his two morning appointments, which turned into a half hour on current Asian market trends.

As of nine o’clock, Ed Balls managed to make his way to Westminster with his loud mouth shut, and the worst out of the Labour camp was a disparaging and inconsequential remark from Dennis Skinner. Even Poppy had managed to be of some use, as the only comments from the Tory camp was homophobic backbencher bile, which Yvette could then decry without having to look like she was supporting the relationship. Peter’s office put out a low-key press release with the expected request for privacy that no one, least of all Peter, expected to be respected.

Peter’s phone buzzed. _“Remarkably quiet at Westminster,”_ it read. _“Like calm before execution.”_ Peter began typing a response.

 _“Governments have survived worse,”_ he wrote. _“Don’t show them any weakness. You’ve done nothing wrong this time.”_

_“Boris rang to congratulate me on taming the Dark Lord. Bet he’s planning his coronation?”_

_“Boris didn’t win. You did.”_ But Peter knew just as well as George how easily any party leader could be disposed.

_“Got to go xx”_

His eyes lingered on the crisp black pixels. Gently, he tucked his phone into his suit. He leaned back in his chair and resumed scanning the rolling news with half his attention. _You’ll never have your life to yourself, his mother had told him all those years ago. It’s not something you can take back._ And despite everything that’s happened to him, he wouldn’t trade his life for anything.

At ten came the first interview with a frontbencher that Peter and George had no influence over.

 _“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with Lord Mandelson and George Osborne’s relationship, if the allegations are true, but anyone would find it strange that Lord Mandelson’s WTO appointment was backed by the Tories,”_ Tim Farron said.

 _“Some might say your entire party was in bed with the Tories,”_ replied the interviewer.

 _“And yet we don’t have any appointments,”_ Farron said, looking all too self-righteous in his new self-styled role as the shining star of the Left.

Peter tsked and ordered Josh to bring him a chocolate bar. A minute later the intern returned with some inedible substance from a vending machine. Peter didn’t say a word, only raised an eyebrow until the thing left his vision, and resumed writing the party line. He had his Pret a few minutes later, along with a judgemental look from Sam which he duly ignored.

There was another strategy meeting at lunch, equally tense and equally productive. Yvette was missing, returning from a school visit that had fortuitously been in Andy Burnham’s schedule. The meeting could have been reduced to a memo: “Brief positively and magnanimously unless you’re Peter. If you are, don’t brief at all and keep away from practising journalists.”

(“I know better than to brief,” Peter said, staring balefully at Tom.

“If figuratively throwing you out the fucking window didn’t work,” Tom said, “maybe I should literally throw you out of one, yeah?”

Peter scoffed.)

_(…)_

After a tense and tiring day holed up at HQ, Peter broke the first rule of the plan. It had been an age since he was last Bobby, but it was simple enough with his clearance, authorised by George a seeming age ago, to spirit himself into Whitehall and from there to No 10. Peter spared a laugh for his own folly; he had only visited No 10 a handful of times since George’s ascendency, George usually going to Regent’s Park instead, and look at him now.

Knowing someone would have cleared No 10 of all non-essential staff, Peter did not sneak about and blithely greeted the one or two civil servants and security guards still about. He spied Poppy in the sitting room and thought George might like him to avoid her, but could seem no harm in being bold and swept into the room.

George was there too.

“Hello Poppy,” Peter said with a smile, settling himself into a seat.

George, who’d nearly shot out of his chair in surprise, exclaimed, “Peter! I thought you weren’t coming!”

“I couldn’t trust you by yourself now, could I?” Peter teased, and was rewarded by the smallest of smirks on George’s visage.

“What are you doing here,” Poppy said angrily. “I thought you were seasoned spin doctor, not _incompetent_.”

Peter sniffed. “I never spun.”

“Two of the most powerful men in the world and both utterly hopeless,” Poppy muttered. “For the love of god, stop making eyes and do something useful, like masterminding media strategy or god forbid, government policy.” Peter raised a forbidding eyebrow. “I’m here for George’s own good; I could care less about you except if it weren’t for George’s besotted bird brain.”

“Now, Poppy,” George began.

“I’ve managed to keep the party quiet so far, but it’s only a matter of time before every cabinet minister and grandee escape from the bowels of their departments and consultancies to have a say. Someone’s bound to request an emergency debate.”

“John wouldn’t grant it,” Peter said assuredly.

_(…)_

 

**II.**

_“If there is any hint of impropriety, he should step down,”_ a Downing St source has said.

“Step down from what, exactly,” Peter raged to Roger over the phone.

“Perhaps you should join the committee for Lords reform,” Jon Cruddas remarked cheerily from his open-door office. Suppressed snickering came from the direction of a few of the aides; Peter rounded on them with a silencing glare.

_(…)_

“The line isn’t reaching the public,” Alastair said.

“Half the frontbench is briefing against me,” Peter said, writing an emphatic memo. “After all I’ve done for them.”

“Peter is a relic of the worst of Labour’s past,” Ed Balls declared on the television.

“Look, that,” Peter said, fuming. “I’ve got to go.”

“ _Don’t_ fucking ring the press,” Alastair shouted.

_(…)_

“Control your fucking husband,” Peter yelled at Yvette.

“I’ll do that when _you_ control _yours_.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” Peter replied. “Shall we have the ceremony in France? I’m sure Ed will enjoy the holiday.”

Alastair rang eight minutes later to lambast him for fuelling the HQ rumour mill before hanging up immediately; it was another five before congratulations and commiserations began pouring in to his mobile.

“Labour officials think we’re to be married in France,” Peter texted George in a spare moment between vehement protests for his personal privacy.

“Parents will be delighted,” came the reply an hour later.

_(…)_

And as he sat at his dimly lit desk waiting for the phone to ring, he felt immeasurably old.


End file.
